


and we are so fragile

by thimble



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bel hasn't put on lipstick in a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we are so fragile

**Author's Note:**

> Catharsis for the finale. It _still_ hurts man.
> 
> Title from 'Breakable' by Ingrid Michaelson.

* * *

 

Bel hasn't put on lipstick in a long time.

She dresses the same, and wakes early to put her hair in rollers as per usual. She still prefers blueberry jam over all others, so that's what she takes with her coffee. Her hands still shake when she hasn't had her morning cigarette (though they shake because of other things too, now). But she leaves her mouth pale, bitten-pink. She does her job well enough with or without it, so it's a non-issue in the office. 

For the most part.

 

* * *

 

_"You look good as you are, Moneypenny."_

She knows that's what he'll say, because he's said it before. She doesn't remember when (the two of them skinny and freshly graduated, and she's trying to tame his wild hair with Brylcreem that smells disgusting and makes her hands stick, but this is the only way he'd even be considered for an interview and this is what you do when you believe in someone, and he's laughing at her as she realises she hasn't done her makeup yet), or where (she's an awful typist, she really is, and she's new at it, so she cries when their editor yells at her, but only until later in the ladies' room when she thinks she's alone, then he whispers from the other side of the door, not brashly for once because he's been listening all along), or why (they're soaking, out too long in the rain because she had fumbled with her keys and dropped them, and when they're inside she passes by a mirror and remarks offhand, "I look like death" as he shakes his head).   
   
Only that he means it.

 

* * *

 

The first time she tries to, it's two days after the Incident - that's what they've taken to calling it because it feels important, because it didn't happen a thousand miles away, or even around the corner, because it happened to one of their own, because it was _Freddie_ \- and she's at home, it's seven am. She's done up her eyes, her cheeks, then she picks up the small tube and uncaps it, and twists. She thinks nothing of it, she's not thinking of anything, until she looks at her reflection and traces the tip of it over each contour of her mouth. Spartan apple red, red as--

And then she's smearing at it with her palms, splashing water on her face until her makeup's running and her hair's fallen out of place, scrubbing at her lips with toilet paper until they're raw. She's a mess, she'll have to change (her clothes, her job, her greatest love, but she can't do the last two without changing the rest of herself). She sinks onto the seat and her top's ruined but she can't even begin to care. Her eyes burn, and that's the closest they get to the brink.

She's late for work that day, so she takes on twice the story. He would've been so proud.

 

* * *

 

She eats her dinners with cheap white wine, and when she's in front of the telly she doesn't watch the news. She misses him more than she did during his ten month absence, because they had cracked in the middle right before that, and neither of them will admit it but they needed the time apart. He had to see more of the world than what she'd shown him, and be amazing elsewhere for a little while. She had to make sure she can live without him, and him without her, but that neither of them would ever want to. 

Despite what anyone says, they didn't wait too long. Their timing was right; it was everything else that was terribly, terribly wrong.

She doesn't fall asleep earlier than midnight, and she doesn't read poetry for fear that she'll hear it in his voice.

 

* * *

 

This is the truth: 

It wasn't the Incident. It was an incident, one like any other, and it happened every other week or less. And nobody cared, nobody except Freddie because he saw himself in them, except now there's no one left because he had joined their ranks. It was inevitable, like the nuclear war is inevitable; Bel just wished it wasn't so soon. She saw her future, their future, lit up by all his talk of possibilities, and he hadn't tasted like anything really, except for smoke because they were too preoccupied to remember eating, and she reckons she tasted the same. 

It wasn't _fair_ that the next time she sees him she barely recognises him (not because he's in a new suit, tailored and clean lines, or a new beard that makes him look distinguished and older and farther away). He hasn't got a face anymore, just pulp, pulp and blood and a mouth that's calling for her when he shouldn't be talking.

Shut up, Freddie, she thinks, else you'll break my heart.

(You already have.)

 

* * *

 

He'll wake up soon, Bel knows it, because she isn't running away anymore. He's back, and it's finally the right time, and she's not afraid because that's the one thing he taught her; she used to take it upon herself to feel twice the fear, because he won't, but she's been changed for good. She's brave because of him (that's what you do for someone when you believe in them) and he'll never know unless she tells him, so she has to tell him, so he has to wake up. Sometimes she forgets this, staring at him, bruises healing and growing a beard again - they've gone about this in such a roundabout way - and can barely keep herself from shaking him, and yelling at him, _Come home, come home to me._ Don't you dare leave, not right now. Not after what you've done.

And then he'll open his eyes, intact and completely whole like the rest of him, except for the stitches beside his ear where his head had been split open. He'll tease her, and she'll love him for it.

(Then she'll have the courage to put red on her mouth again, if only to leave an imprint on his cheek, and it'll be a beautiful sight this time around.)

 _'Leave now, Moneypenny?'_ He'll flash a lopsided smile, like he'd just gotten drinks with the Grim Reaper and been sent on his merry way. _'But we've only just begun.'_


End file.
